Game of Souls (7 page)

As it should,
Ainslen thought as he strode next to Jemare. “You’ve been busy running the empire, and well I have had other duties to attend.”

“There was a time politics would not stop you from visiting.”

Ainslen wanted to tell him it was so much more than that, but he refrained from dredging up Marjorie’s memory. “Change happens for all of us.”

“I suppose it does,” Jemare said. “Loss can do things to man, none of them pleasant.”

Ainslen nodded his agreement. After Joaquin’s death Jemare had grown into a different person. Once patient, understanding, and compassionate, he had become harder, more ruthless, and less forgiving.

“Tell me,” the king stared him directly in the face, “what happened to us, to our friendship?”

Ainslen met Jemare’s gaze without flinching. “You became king. It changed everything. You know as well as I that it’s simply the way Kasinia is, the way it has always been.”

“I miss the old days,” the king said wearily.

“As do I.” Ainslen recalled the times spent womanizing together, sparring with each other, planning strategy and fighting battles alongside each other. Their relationship changed in the years leading up to Succession Day during King Tolquan’s reign. Already dangerous, Jemare grew insatiable in his need for power until he took the crown. When he married Terestere, Ainslen thought her beauty and demeanor would bring back his old friend. How wrong he’d been.

“I wish I knew what could divert the path we’re set upon,” Jemare said.

“As long as the guilds have their freedom and we follow Far’an Senjin, our history will continue to repeat itself.”

“You have always blamed our troubles on the Game of Souls. Perhaps, you are right. However, it as much a part of us as the Consortium and the Day of Accolades. We might dislike certain things, but not only are they a necessity, they shape us.”

“That shape at times becomes something ugly.”

The king stopped before a rose bush its thorny vines crawling up a trellis. He drew in a deep breath as if savoring the red blooms’ tantalizing aroma. “And sometimes within that ugliness springs a thing of beauty. Like Terestere, like Joaquin.”

Ainslen could not help the heat that crawled up inside him. “At what cost?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“I-I’m sorry for what happened—” Jemare began.

“Don’t … what’s done is done. You had your chance. You’re the king, you could have stopped it, changed the Trial, transformed the game, decided how we lived.” The memory burned.

“Listen to yourself.” Jemare was once again peering into his face, eyes pleading. “You are saying that I could have stopped how we’ve lived for a thousand years. It’s like wishing a mountain would sprout legs and move away because you wish to pass or for the Kheridisians to love us. If I tried what you asked, it would mean slaughtering all the houses as they stand now, yours included. Is that what you wish? Even if I tried, the entire land would rise against me. I learned that early in my reign. We might rule, but our people are a strong one. They often have the final say. We made them so.”

Ainslen remembered how he and Jemare would discuss the changes they’d make if either of them ever won the crown. None of that came to pass. As overpowering as the king was, as indomitable as his will had been, he’d fallen into the same old patterns, bought into the same old traditions. And it had taken Ainslen’s family. The count ground his jaw.

As if seeing the pain and anger in his face, the king did not force the issue. “So what is it that brings you to me today?”

“My son. You must have heard by now.”

“Ah, yes, the Trial of Bravery. You must be proud.”

“If I had my way, he wouldn’t have taken the test.”

“But he did, and he passed. You’re here now to ask for him to begin apprenticeship with the Blades.” Jemare pursed his lips. “I could have him advanced through the ranks to begin actual soul training.”

“No,” Ainslen said, “he must start as any other. In the Grey Fist.”

Jemare’s brow creased with lines. “Are your certain?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I shall have him assigned to the Fist before I leave to meet with the Thelusian and Marish monarchs to address the rumors of a Farlander fleet.”

“Thank you.” Ainslen knew the king must have thought it strange to refuse the offer, but the memory of Marjorie told him that keeping Winslow where he could always have an eye on him was for the best. Only the Dominion knew what Jemare’s intentions might be if he became aware of Winslow’s growth.

“I can almost understand why you wouldn’t want your son to become a Blade, but look at you and I, Ainslen. Forget the wars, we survived all those years spent melding.”

“Perhaps. But who is to say the Dominion will shine on him as they did us? We, and the few like us, were the exception, not the rule.”

“True,” Jemare said, “but choices of fate have ever been in Hazline’s hands. My one regret is the children we lose. There are too many born without a strong enough gift. So many reduced to invalids and cremated. And then there are the others, the ones induced too fast who burn out their souls. It’s becoming harder to maintain the armies.”

Ainslen knew only too well. “Have you considered declaring war on Kheridisia or one of the western lands?”

“Yes, but first I must assess this new threat.”

“Then I say scour the Smear.”

“Bah, you and your obsession with the place. They already submit what they have to us. No. I will order a bigger tribute from around the empire. That should suffice for now.” The king’s thick eyebrows drew together. “Well, if you will excuse me, Ainslen, I fear my attendants wish to prepare me for my trip. You know foreign rulers … having to answer to me makes them no less impatient. I shall leave the order for your son as I pass the Grey Fist. When I return, don’t be such a stranger, old friend. Bring your boy for me to see. He’s sixteen, correct? He must be quite the young man by now.”

“As you wish, sire.” Ainslen gave Jemare a sweeping bow and left. Winslow would never meet the king if he could help it.

I
nvitation to Hunt

T
wo days later, a bit past noon, Keedar easily picked out Gaston on Cobbler’s Lane, the street adjacent to Deadman’s Gap. A member of the Red Beggar guild, scarlet scarf around his neck matching that on his arm, bowed profusely to the young noble. Unlike the first meeting, Gaston rode a majestic chestnut stallion, certainly a warhorse of some type considering its temperament. Two guards in burnished mail cleared a path through the throng of patrons on their way to partake in the deals and black market items the plaza provided. People shifted around Gaston and his men like ripples in a pond.

The young noble stood out. Not that they weren’t other well-to-do folk: merchants, bare-chested ship’s captains, a coach flying the colors of some lesser house, decently ranked soldiers and the like, but they paled in comparison to Gaston’s lace and silk, his white derin cloak hanging from his shoulders. Clothing made quite a difference even on one as bony as him.

After adjusting his leather greaves and gloves, Keedar slipped across several roofs and shimmied down a wall at the Smear’s edge. The two guards gave each other a look and a smirk as Keedar approached. Trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, he kept his steps even, unhurried. He stopped when the closest guard leveled a spear squarely at his chest. A hole through his gut wouldn’t do well for his digestion or his heart for that matter.

“Lord Rostlin, might this dreg be the one you’re after?” The guard behind the spear offered a lopsided grin that sent his pockmarked face from ugly to the better part of hideous.

Gaston wheeled his mount with a grace that said he’d been riding from birth. Perhaps he’d been spat out of his mother’s womb on the damned thing. With his face clean, the young nobleman made quite the picture. What he lacked in size, he made up for in looks. His skin was a bit paler shade than Keedar’s own. Curly hair lay across his brow. When he swept it from his eyes, he made a simple motion seem sublime. He cracked a smile, revealing teeth that practically glowed white.

Warning bells, like those used when there was a fire in the Smear, tolled in Keedar’s head. He almost turned away. How he managed to stay and return Gaston’s grin would have made his father beam with pride.

“Keedar,” Gaston exclaimed over the surrounding chatter, “so glad I found you.” He waved to the guard who lowered his weapon.

No, I found you.
Keedar dipped his head. “How may I help … my lord?”

“How would you like to accompany us into the Parmien? Winslow and a few close friends are waiting.”

“Me?” Keedar arched an eyebrow.

“I know no one else around here.” Gaston still had that infectious smile. “You have your doubts about us, but we both owe you. A good time is the least we can offer. Besides, I remember you mentioned something about a derin. We’re going to hunt one of the beasts. It will be fun.”

“Fun? Derin hunting is dangerous sport. It takes a certain kind of skill to even get close to one of them. That is if you don’t end up as fodder yourself.”

“There will be enough of us to reduce any risk.”

“In that case,” Keedar said, “you’re forgetting one thing.”

“Oh?”

Keedar glanced from Gaston’s horse and then back to the boy’s face.

“Ah. Meet us at the Keneshin—I mean the West Gate, we’ll have a mount for you there.”

Keedar smiled at the correction. For a moment he considered telling Gaston he couldn’t ride. Before he could utter a word, Gaston slapped his reins and rode away. After giving Keedar the once over, the guards followed.

With a sigh, Keedar watched until he lost them in the crowds. One didn’t deny a noble, and Gaston wasn’t asking for his presence. He expected it.

As he worked his way back into the Smear, Keedar relieved a peddler of a carrot, and took to the roofs once more. He traversed toward Kasandar’s western outskirts with its ramparts the color of dried blood. Using the bronze and blackened steel spires of Corten’s Shrine for guidance, he leaped over the spaces between the haphazard building layouts until he attained his goal.

When his approach gained several archers’ attention, he shimmied down a drain a few hundred feet from the wall. The last thing he needed was to put them on edge or risk ending up a pincushion. Jogging the rest of the way he soon reached the district near the Keneshin Gate.

In total, Kasandar had ten gates along the hundred-foot tall bulwark surrounding the citadel. Each represented a God or Goddess and their corresponding Heaven within the pantheon of the Dominion. Some folk joked that the Keneshin, Mandrigal, and Humel Gates, all located close to the Smear, should each be renamed to match the Ten Purgatories ruled by the God of the Afterlife, Desitrin.

The lecturers Father employed insisted Keedar learn as much of Kasinia’s religions as its past. He often wondered how such knowledge benefited him considering his lack of status. Father would always reply that knowledge separated the living from the dead.

This section of the citadel reflected the civilizations that came to prominence dating back to the Fabled Era. The differences, stark and subtle, were another reason he enjoyed the rooftops. From them, the citadel’s growth was laid bare, wood becoming stone, stone becoming metal, ruin becoming rebirth. Ancient architecture gave Kasandar its character—from giant bronzeworks, to stone arches, to towering statues of Gods and Hell’s Angels, the latter often defaced by those who considered them blasphemous. A monolithic clock tower, the timepiece in the form of exposed gears, stood out in the distance near several golden towers whose structures stretched up into the sky like gigantic needles. Legend had it that Hazline, the God of the Fates and the Thirty-two Winds, and Antelen, the Goddess of Time and Tide, created the clock. If he were to believe the zealots.

The Golden Spires, King Jemare’s home, fascinated him. The slant-eyed Marishmen, who inhabited the Blooded Dagger Mountains to the east and believed the higher they built the closer they were to the Gods, raved about the towers. In contrast were the stark, black, Thelusian structures, square and squat, a direct opposite to the race’s size that spread for miles from the spires. Supposedly, the midnight-skinned people used their souls during construction. Some said their homes were alive. Once, Keedar had tried to find proof, venturing close to their houses, but the sense of foreboding they gave off made him turn back. Caught in the moment, he let his gaze rove. Kasandar offered a thousand stories spanning through eras that left it with silver buildings, red basalt walls, and glass covered edifices in the richest districts down to the ramshackle blot of the Smear. If only he could sit and listen to them all.

“You there, dreg.”

The word and rough yet commanding voice cut through his thoughts. He almost shot back a scathing response before he realized he had crossed the Smear’s borders.

Soldiers lined the roads leading from the district, keeping an eye out for any who might be criminals. From time to time they referred to drawings they carried. More than one stopped to peer into a Red Beggar’s face where the guild member sat, pleading for alms. Keedar had stolen such a painting once. Pictured on the canvas was a dark-haired man with multiple knife scars across his cheeks and a woman with tinges of silver in her hair, her eyes amber jewels, reminding him of his own. She and the man could have fit right in the Smear. He wondered who was depicted on the wanted posters now.

Keedar recognized one of the guards. He often saw the man on his weekly trip into the forest with Father. The guard didn’t bother to look at his drawing. Instead, he gave Keedar a nod and waved him by.

The streets here in the Grey Ward weren’t as crowded as those along Rockbottom Plaza. This section held nothing of real value unless one wanted to strip old wood and rotted bricks from a building. Or hire the occasional whore. However, the purveyors of flesh who frequented this area weren’t the prettiest. Keedar couldn’t help his lips twitching with the thought. These whores were veritable hags: gap-toothed, more fat than curves, disheveled, wrinkly, scarred, and stink. They could make a man savor the wharfs.

Weaving his way through back alleys, he reached the gate in short order. Set into the wall’s basalt and granite surface, the structure loomed before him, all grey metal with rusty traces near the joints. It had to be at least forty feet tall and thirty wide. Soldiers patrolled on the wall above it. He could make out the conical helms of several others within the towers to each side. Inspectors rummaged through the contents of any patron entering the citadel. This created a line that stretched for some ways outside and along the Parmien Road. Those leaving got nothing more than a cursory glance.

If Keedar thought Gaston was dashing, when he saw Winslow, he couldn’t help but gawk. In blue to match the clearest summer sky, he sat upon a dark bay gelding, its coat as immaculate as its master’s clothing, its chest deep. Silver scrollwork adorned his sleeves. Keedar schooled his face to calm.
Was the boy going to hunt or to a ball?
To kill a beast or steal kisses from it?
Leave it to the nobles to make a hunt look pretty
.
Winslow barely met his eyes before continuing to chat to a young man who dabbed at his pudgy face regularly. Being ignored annoyed Keedar, but he said nothing and showed less.

Another young man, who dwarfed the mare he rode, held Gaston’s attention. From where Keedar stood he caught a whiff of whatever scents they wore. He suppressed a grin as the image of them standing in a mirror crossed his mind, maids fussing over them, getting them all nice and flowery. They were all fools. A derin would smell them a mile away. The only ones who appeared remotely ready to hunt were the spear-wielding guards.

Conscious of his own appearance, and the sweat he’d accumulated during his run, Keedar found himself smoothing his clothing. An act that brought chortles from the nobles. He cursed at himself under his breath.

“Rellin,” Gaston nodded to Pudgy, “Harmon, meet Keedar.”

Keedar bobbed his head to each in turn. “My lords,” he muttered.

Their gazes said they thought as much of him as they would a speck of dirt. Then again, judging from their dress, a little soil would be bothersome. Or it might actually do them some good. Well, he would show them.

“Your mount.” Gaston gestured to a dun.

Shorter than the others, the horse waited patiently. It didn’t prance or roll its eyes when Keedar approached. He walked around the animal, hands at his sides, taking note of the sturdy legs and the pronounced withers. Round, brown eyes watching, the dun snorted. Keedar stepped closer and allowed the animal to sniff him. Once he was certain the horse had his scent good and proper, he reached into his pocket and produced the carrot. A glint lit its eyes as it nuzzled his hand, and then took the morsel. Keedar stroked its neck. When he rubbed its chest and down the sides, the dun was chewing away, ignoring him. Keedar didn’t need to look up to tell all eyes were on him; he felt them. He smiled with his back still to them before he straightened his face. Without a word, he swung up into the saddle with ease.

“Whenever you’re ready, my lords,” he said as serious as a preaching wiseman. The looks he received were things of beauty.

Winslow took the lead. The others followed a step behind, conversing amongst each other, but ignoring Keedar. That was fine by him. What would he say to these young men anyway? They had about as much in common as a rooster did with a hawk.

And yet Father wanted him to befriend them. Well, Winslow and Gaston at least. The other two were of no consequence. They could get eaten by a derin or skewered by a spear and he wouldn’t care. In truth, he’d probably enjoy the former. Despite the debt Winslow and Gaston owed him, he realized he needed to bide his time. What he did with the horse didn’t help. He was certain they had expected him to fall on his ass. It wouldn’t be the first time he disappointed them or the last. Pretending to be a lesser man wouldn’t do. One had to have at least a little pride and stubbornness. If he let Father tell it, he had a head like granite.

They kept to the Parmien Road at first, bypassing folk on horseback, coach, or foot. Some were farmers and merchants, while others appeared to be lesser off, heading to a great city to seek their fortune.
Good luck to them.
Keedar smirked. Chances were they’d end up joining the makeshift homes that dotted the land surrounding the citadel. King Jemare and other monarchs before him had tried to prevent such expansions before, citing the structures and growth as a risk to Kasandar’s safety. But when no threat had visited the empire in a century or more, such enforcement became quite a bit more difficult to justify. To the point where the king had apparently surrendered.

When the last such homes disappeared, undulating plains spread before the group. Farmland bled into shrubbery, brush into copses, and eventually, after cresting a hill, the woodlands began below them. Spruces, pines, and oak made up the Parmien’s bulk with the occasional massive white ash standing out. ‘Older than the forest itself,’ Father used to say. Keedar believed it, considering their girth and height. Ten men holding hands might not encircle the gigantic trunks.

Engrossed in his thoughts, and so accustomed to coming to the forest, Keedar hadn’t immediately noticed what else lay below. He frowned when it finally caught his eye. An encampment sprawled at the wood’s edge. Flags depicting a golden sun on a field of red fluttered in the breeze. Others representing minor houses flew nearby. Keedar only had eyes for the one with the sun. It was Count Cardiff’s Mandrigal insignia.

Keedar glanced from one boy to the other. Gaston wore a smile, while Winslow appeared either annoyed, apprehensive, or a combination of both. The other two continued to chatter as if nothing had changed. Keedar couldn’t help the tightness easing up his shoulders. Nothing of this encounter felt good. When Winslow let out a breath, gave a slight shake of his head, and flapped his reins, Keedar’s tension increased.

As tempting as it was to ride away, the glances from the guards and their positions to his flank and rear, suggested he should stay. He tried to sink into himself and avoid drawing on his soul. The last thing he needed was for someone to see what he could do. Knowing the counts’ habits as he did, Blades were certain to be among those in the camp.